Simon Beaufort - The Bloodstained Throne

It did not take long to locate a causeway that led roughly north, although parts had been washed away or were so covered in mud that it was difficult to follow. It was a grimy, dishevelled group that finally emerged from the squelching flatlands to climb a low, oak-clad hill. Geoffrey looked back at the land they had traversed. It was dissected by channels and streams, some fringed by trees and shrubs, but most bare, and everywhere were pools of water. To his surprise, the grey walls of Pevenesel Castle were startlingly near, and they were not in the direction he had expected. Thus, it was with reservations that he followed Harold and Magnus, both of whom claimed to know where they were going.

‘I have horses nearby,’ said Harold to his half-brother, taking a bulb of garlic from his pack. ‘Well, for you and me. You did not tell me you would bring supporters, so I only arranged for two.’

‘We are not supporters,’ said Roger. ‘You should stop saying that.’

‘You should be proud to serve your rightful king,’ asserted Magnus. ‘Many men would give their right arms to be in your position.’

‘Men with no right arms would be of no use to you,’ Bale pointed out helpfully. ‘They would be unable to put up a fight, and warriors like me would slaughter them.’

‘I have decided not to accept your offer of a see, Magnus,’ said Roger. ‘On reflection, I do not think life as a bishop would suit me. So we will travel with you as far as this abbey, but there our association finishes.’

‘We shall see,’ said Magnus in a voice that made Geoffrey look at him sharply. The sense that things were not all they seemed, which had been with him since Magnus had grabbed him in the frothing waves, returned more strongly than ever, and when he saw Juhel listening carefully to the exchange, his unease intensified. He trusted none of the little party.

‘We will say prayers of deliverance in the abbey,’ determined Roger. ‘And Geoff can talk to Brother Wardard. But none of it will take long, and we shall be on the road today.’

‘The road to where?’ asked Ulfrith. He glanced uneasily at Geoffrey. ‘Not Dover, I hope.’

‘I swore a vow,’ said Geoffrey tartly, annoyed that the squire should question his integrity. ‘You are going to Durham, and I will travel west. Joan will not mind seeing me again so soon.’

‘Neither will Hilde,’ said Roger with a leering wink. ‘Unless you have put her with child already, in which case she will want you gone until it is safely delivered. She will not like you tampering with her when she is carrying — they never do.’

Geoffrey did not reply and concentrated on their surroundings. It would be a pity to be taken by Fingar now, just because they were careless. He listened intently, alert for anything that might suggest an ambush. It would be a perfect place for one — the track was narrow and hemmed in by vegetation. Roger also listened, glaring Juhel into silence when the man started to chatter.

‘Is there another way to the abbey?’ Like Geoffrey, Roger did not like the look of the path.

Harold shook his head. ‘Not from this direction. Why? What is wrong with it?’

‘Birds,’ replied Roger, looking meaningfully at his friend.

Geoffrey nodded his understanding, and they listened again.

‘What about birds?’ asked Juhel in a whisper. ‘I cannot hear any.’

‘Quite,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We should be able to, but there is nothing.’

‘Perhaps it is too early in the morning for them,’ suggested Harold, demonstrating an outrageous lack of countryside awareness.

‘More likely, they have been disturbed.’ Geoffrey drew his sword and advanced cautiously.

He had not gone far before a movement caught his eye. He shot into the undergrowth after it and was astonished to find not battle-hungry seamen or would-be wreckers from the villages, but a man in dark, sodden clothing, who climbed to his feet with an expression of pure relief.

‘Sir Geoffrey!’ he breathed. ‘Thank God! I thought you were a marsh fay!’

It took some time for Brother Lucian to explain how he came to be in the woods, because Roger, Magnus and Harold kept interrupting to give details about their own experiences. Bored, Juhel wandered off to sit alone. Eventually, though, Geoffrey understood what had happened.

Lucian had been the first to leave Patrick — even before the captain had given the order to abandon ship — because, he said, he knew it was doomed. Thus he had come ashore a considerable distance from everyone else and had wandered for hours looking for survivors. All he had found were Donan and Kale, who had promptly relieved him of his purse and pectoral cross, and would have relieved him of his life, too, had he not pointed out that it was a mortal sin to kill a monk. He had then fled inland, spending the first night sheltering in a shepherd’s hut. However, the next night, the shepherd had returned and evicted him, obliging him to shelter among the trees.

‘But God punished him for his lack of charity,’ Lucian concluded, ‘because He caused a tree to fall on the hut and crush it.’

He pointed towards a venerable old beech that was lying on its side, remnants of a thatch and timber structure all but invisible among the mess of branches.

‘Was the shepherd in it at the time?’ asked Bale, regarding it with round eyes.

Lucian nodded. ‘I am afraid so.’

‘We do not want to see,’ said Geoffrey, grabbing Bale, who most certainly did. ‘Have you seen the sailors since you left the beach?’

Lucian nodded. ‘Several times, but I do not know where they are now. What are your plans? I asked some locals for help, but their only response was to pelt me with stones. If you intend to rely on their assistance, you will be disappointed.’

‘They were probably afraid of you,’ explained Magnus. ‘The Bastard’s invasion forty years ago has rendered folk in these parts wary of strangers. He destroyed any number of villages.’

‘But not Werlinges,’ said Harold, nodding to farther along the path. ‘He spared Werlinges, although he destroyed several settlements that lay in a circle around it.’

‘Why?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Did Werlinges offer him help? Provide information or swear fealty?’

‘Not that I know,’ said Harold. ‘But it stands on a hill, so perhaps the Normans could not be bothered to climb up it in their armour.’

Lucian nodded at the cut on Geoffrey’s face. ‘It looks as though you have had trouble, too. Of course, you are a soldier, whereas I am a monk, and people are usually generous to those.’

‘Not around here,’ said Harold. ‘Because of La Batailge. The Conqueror gifted the abbey a lot of Saxon land, and tithes and rents are ruthlessly gathered. It means Benedictines are unpopular. If you had been from another order, you probably would have had a warmer reception.’

‘Oh,’ said Lucian, swallowing hard. ‘That is unfortunate.’

‘Very,’ agreed Magnus. ‘I shall take all these lands away from La Batailge when I am king.’

‘I meant it is unfortunate that I happened to land here,’ said Lucian. Then his eyes narrowed and he regarded Magnus askance. ‘You plan to be king? Of England?’

‘I am your rightful monarch,’ declared Magnus. He gestured to Harold. ‘So is he.’

‘I see,’ said Lucian, bemused. ‘Does Henry know?’

‘He will, soon enough,’ replied Magnus. ‘We are the sons of King Harold, who was viciously murdered near here by Norman invaders.’

‘Are you?’ asked Lucian, startled. ‘Lord!’

‘Yes, you may address me as lord,’ said Magnus. ‘It is a fitting title until I claim my throne. Then you can call me Your Majesty. But we should not linger. We must make our way to the abbey without further delay.’